


That's One for the Money, Two for the Drunk Tank

by gwenweybourne



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Drabble, Drunklock, Gen, Humour, John is a very good doctor even when drunk, Series 3, Sherlock is five years old, Sherlock spoilers, The Sign of Three
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-01-07
Updated: 2014-01-07
Packaged: 2018-01-07 19:41:27
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,067
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1123643
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/gwenweybourne/pseuds/gwenweybourne
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>What happened after the stag 'do but before the morning after. (fill-in scene) SIGN OF THREE/SERIES THREE SPOILERS.</p>
            </blockquote>





	That's One for the Money, Two for the Drunk Tank

“This is a mistake,” John slurred as he shuffled into the cell and then let out a surprised _oof_ sound as 175 pounds of Sherlock Holmes pushed into his back as his friend was shoved in behind him by the police officer. “Do you know who this is?” He grabbed a fistful of Sherlock’s jacket. “… tell ’em who you are. G’wan now …”

Sherlock lurched to the side and looked blankly at John, then grinned, turning to face the officer. “Yes … I am … I am … the world’s only … only …”

“Uh … con … constipated?” John supplied helpfully.

“Yes, that. Constipated detective!” Sherlock said triumphantly, holding up a finger. Then he lurched back to look at John again. “Wait … that sounds wrong …”

John opened his mouth to speak, but was interrupted by the beleaguered officer. “Yes, we know who you are, Mister Holmes and Doctor Watson.”

“Ah, see, he knows us,” said John merrily to Sherlock. “He knows me. Maybe I do have an international reputation …”

“Nah,” said Sherlock dismissively, waving a hand in John’s face.

“You could be the bloody king of England and it wouldn’t change the fact that you two are bladdered beyond recognition. Sleep it off and we’ll talk in the morning.” And, with that, the officer exited the cell and pulled the door shut behind him with a clank.

“But I AM the king of England!” Sherlock yelled after him, his voice echoing off the tiles.

John giggled, then winced. “Oi, mate.”

“We were on a _case_ ,” Sherlock huffed, staggering to the small padded bench that lined the far end of the tiny cell. “And it was getting good, too.”

“You vomited on the case,” John reminded him, sitting down next to the detective and leaning back against the wall.

“That was your fault,” Sherlock grumbled.

“ _My_ fault?” John exclaimed.

“I had it all worked out … Molly helped … it was all fixed,” Sherlock groaned, leaning back against the wall as well. “You … did stuff. I got drunk. No sustenance to correct the imbalance.”

“Well, I was going to suggest we get a kebab after leaving the flat,” John muttered.

Sherlock’s stomach made an unpleasant gurgling sound. “Ugh, don’t say that word again. I don’t know why people do this … get drunk … do you do it often?”

“Not recently, obviously,” John said, closing his eyes for a moment. “Lost all my stamina. Mary isn’t one for going out on the lash, which turned out to be a good thing.”

“So you were drinking loads before you met her.”

John cleared his throat gently.

“Ah, I see. … sorry about that. Though probably better than cocaine. That’s what I would have done. If, you know, if …” Sherlock twirled his fingers in the air to indicate “positions being reversed.”

“You probably would have been glad for the excuse to take it up again,” John muttered. “Probably start smoking again, too. Cliché.”

“No more than a sad man clutching a bottle.”

“Says two the men in the drunk tank after an attempt at a stag ’do. Think we’ve covered cliché pretty well tonight.”

Sherlock chuckled. Then giggled.

“Oi, what’s so funny,” John muttered.

“ _Constipated_ detective,” Sherlock tittered.

John laughed. “I think new business cards are in order.”

Sherlock made a humming sound in the back of his throat and his body sagged to one side, his head coming down onto John’s shoulder. Normally John wouldn’t have minded this so much, but then Sherlock let out a burp and John noted his atrocious breath and the smell of sick clinging to his shirt.

“All right, all right, mate,” he muttered, pushing Sherlock upright and unsteadily getting to his feet.

Sherlock started awake. “Huh? Wha … can we go now?”

“Nope. But I am giving you the bench. C’mon, lie down.” John gently nudged Sherlock down and bent down a little — then waited a moment for his head to stop spinning — to slip his hands under the backs of Sherlock’s knees and ease the long legs up onto the bench.

“But where will you go?” Sherlock protested, feebly attempting to resist John’s arrangement.

“I’ll be fine. Have more experience with this than you do. C’mon, roll onto your side. Recovery position.” John clumsily tugged at Sherlock’s hip, moving his body into his side and shifting Sherlock’s right arm to pillow his head. “I only just got you back … won’t have you choking on your own vomit like some … addled rockstar.”

“I’ll be fine,” Sherlock grumbled, but made no further attempt to move from the position in which he’d been placed.

John eased himself down onto the hard floor and exhaled as he leaned back against the wall. He noted that he was probably in the line of fire should Sherlock decide to vomit again, but he couldn’t bring himself to move another inch at the moment.

_Vomit’s nothing after you think you saw his skull cracked open on the pavement …_

“Sherlock?”

Sherlock’s eyelids fluttered open. His voice was thick and sluggish. “Mmmyes, John …”

“It’s all going to be all right, you know.”

“Hmmm?”

“The wedding. Me and Mary. You and me.”

“Keep saying that and I’ll think you’re trying to convince yourself more than me …”

John turned and looked at his former flatmate. “You bloody well know what I mean.”

“Mmmm.” Sherlock’s eyes closed again, his breathing shifting into a slower pattern. Until it stopped.

John, who’d just closed his eyes again, sat up straight and looked over at his friend. “Sherlock!”

Sherlock’s eyes remained closed, but he swallowed, then licked dry lips. “Do you believe in ghosts, John?”

John let out a long breath and leaned back against the wall again, his heart pounding. “You need to remember to keep breathing, Sherlock. For love of … and no, you know I don’t. It’s rubbish.”

“Ah, but it’s not.”

“You’re drunk, Sherlock. _We’re_ drunk. Go to sleep. And then we can be hungover together tomorrow. Another bonding experience to remember.”

Sherlock’s lips curved into a wry smile. “I was a ghost for two years, John. Two years … I know what it’s like. We’ll find that ghost. I promise …”

John closed his eyes again. “Well, you got the haunting thing down right, that’s for sure. One of these days … are you going to tell me what went on during that time?”

Sherlock made a rumbling sound.

“Is that a no?”

Silence.

Then a deep chuckle. Followed by a giggle.

“Now what?”

“ _Constipated_ detective …”

“ _Good night_ , Sherlock.”


End file.
